


Chrism

by fansofcollisions



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Angst, Catholicism, Gen, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sickfic, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 02:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15547440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: Marcus manages almost a year on his own before Mouse stumbles back onto his (non-existent) doorstep. He wishes he was happier to see her. He's more concerned with the unconscious Tomas shivering in her backseat.





	Chrism

**Author's Note:**

> I have another Exorcist fic that I probably should have finished first, but technically I started _this_ one before that one, so whatever.
> 
> PS. If this was a major character death fic I would have warned for it, be not afraid.

This reads like déjà vu – the flatbed of a truck, dusty roads, chasing the sunset with danger on their heels. This time it’s Mouse driving, and she hugs the curves of the road with a deft surety that Tomas’ frantic arm jerks couldn’t manage a year ago in Montana. Marcus is grateful she’s here, so his own fluttering hands have the freedom to brush the sweat from matted curls and onto rusting steel. Every bump in the gravel sends Tomas’ forehead cresting into the cup of his palm. The skin burns beneath his fingers.

This fever should have broken by now.

It’s nightfall by the time they pull into a sorry roadside motel, and Marcus can almost fool himself that the chattering of Tomas’ teeth is an improvement, a natural reaction to the chilly northern air. Is Lynden considered northern? They’re almost at the border, so it must be. Maybe subsidized Canadian healthcare could give them a hand, but Tomas doesn’t have a passport… which isn’t the most pressing issue here, is it? God, he must be tired. His brain is running in jackrabbit circles, knifing closer and closer to the sort of mania that comes in his darkest hours. The kind Tomas used to be so good at grounding him from.

The room only has two beds, which isn’t a problem. Marcus suffers under no illusion that he’ll be sleeping tonight. They strip the first bed, the two of them – Mouse and Marcus – while Tomas moans from his huddled perch in the stiff armchair by the window. They’ll replace the sheets when they leave tomorrow, and cover the stain of any bodily evidence of illness. Marcus draws his hand along the mattress’s edge, and the fabric chafes and tugs at his skin like plastic teeth but it will have to do. At least it’s clean. Probably.

He takes all the towels from the bathroom and lays them on the floor by the bedside table, ready to cool a fevered forehead. He carefully does not evaluate what force it would take to sheer the off-white fabric into strips, whether two of those strips tied together could reach from an outstretched wrist to the leg of the bed’s metal frame, whether the frame itself could hold against too-persistent wrenching. Tomas is sick, but he’s better too. They know this with the same certainty that Marcus trusts his own sanity. Which is to say, with absolute certainty, except for times like this.

He doesn’t stop Mouse from whispering a holy blessing on the lintel. She’s right to be cautious. Even if there’s no demon left in Tomas’ body, there’s nothing to say something else might not have caught the scent of decay in their wake and followed, bloodhound senses chasing the taste of weakness.

It’s not that he expects Tomas would say yes, this time. He just can’t be sure, in this state, that he could say no.

She leaves to pick up provisions from the 24/7 they passed half a mile out, food and ginger ale and enough gas to get them well into the heart of the Cascades. That’s the tentative plan, at least. Another day’s drive past that should get them back into Idaho, and then on to Montana. Like no time has passed at all in the year of separation. Exit stage right, pursued by the entirety of the Holy Catholic Communion. 

Tomas coughs. First it’s nothing but a sputter, and Marcus reaches out to rub circles over Tomas’ heart, as though the motion could spirit the sickness out of his chest. The rubbing only aggravates the cough into a tearing sound that echoes from the walls. Each new convulsion contorts Tomas’ back until he’s curled onto his side with his cheek pressed into the bare mattress. Consciously or unconsciously, he shoves Marcus’ hand away, and Marcus presses it instead to his own chest, and breathes for them both.

This isn’t a supernatural ailment. It’s an ordinary thing, this fever and cough and perspiration, and that is more terrifying than any demon-wrought sickness could be. Marcus knows the right words for a possession. He’s got the crucifix and the prayers and the holy water. He has every tool at his disposal to beat a demon back, and when even that isn’t enough…

Then again, this _is_ more than just a common cold, and Marcus knows it, because Mouse called him in the dead of night to tell him so.

\---

He was camped out by the trestle of a bridge, staring at the pack of cigarettes in his palm, like he’d forgotten why he bought them. Force of habit, to keep some around. He never expected to live long enough to see the effect on his lungs, and so he’d never thought too hard about the occasional habit before.

Maybe this would be the year he’d quit. The timing felt right.

Marcus answered the phone, eyes fixed on the crimson and black sticker emblazoned across the carton as Mouse told him they were forty miles outside Seattle, and that she needed help.

**WARNING**

She needed _him_.

**SMOKING SERIOUSLY HARMS YOU AND OTHERS AROUND YOU**

A mistake, _oh god_ , a mistake, and he wasn’t there to pull Tomas back from it. Mouse is wiser than him in so many ways, but she is still young in so many others. They both are, her and Tomas. They don’t know how to fail and to keep moving forward. They always have to keep _pushing_. Didn’t he tell Tomas that the road he walked was dangerous? Didn’t he tell Mouse to keep her head? _When the devil comes a’knocking, you tell him no, no, no._

Would they even have called him if Tomas hadn’t gotten so bad?

She thought they’d gotten away with it, Mouse whispered to him as they dragged Tomas’ limp body from the back of the stolen Camri and into Marcus’ truck. _I’m sorry._

For what?

Years ago, Marcus exorcised a demon from a girl in Savannah. It took seven agonizing days. When he left town with spotless success record still intact she was still hooked up to monitors, sweat thick on her forehead, her eyes as wild as Tomas’. He didn’t ask the doctors for the prognosis. Better not to know.

When that power gets into you, it’s not just your mind it infects. Lowered immune system, weakness of the limbs, fractures that don’t heal quite right. You live a changed life, if you live at all.

He told Mouse to apologize for letting him allow the demon in in the first place, not for the steady deterioration that followed. Besides, it’s not really her he wants an apology from.

\---

The door of the hotel room bangs, startling his back ramrod straight, and his hand is at his hip before he’s even turned to face the intruder. His fingers find nothing there but a carton of cigarettes, still unopened.

Right. The gun, the one that lies at the bottom of Puget Sound – he’d forgotten he’d thrown it away.

Marcus was going to leave this life behind. Funny, that.

Thank god it’s only Mouse then, and not the pursuers he’d been expecting. The church is still on their heels, a spectre hung over every action, and not once did he stop looking over his shoulder in the last year so there’s no way he’ll stop now. Any hunters have triple the incentive for giving chase now. Besides, Mouse thought they were being followed. He’ll still put her instincts above his own, even after everything. She’s got a sixth sense for these things.

She makes him promise to wake her after a few hours so they can trade off shifts. Just like old times. Marcus agrees with a soft smile, and lets the minutes tick past, until grey light is pressing through the crack in the curtains. She doesn’t admonish him for his lie when her bleary eyes finally open. Who knows how many hours she’s been awake? They were somewhere past Eugene in Oregon when she made the call. For all he knows, she drove clear from California to find him in time.

Tomas sleeps in fits, waking to groan and toss, and after every episode Marcus pulls the blanket back over his shoulders, once he’s sure Tomas has settled. The coughing never truly abates. Marcus expects every attack to end in telltale specks of blood on the white mattress, but they don’t materialize. That’s something to be thankful for, at least. He hates that a part of him is yearning to see the stains, so at least he _knows_ , one way or the other.

_Why did you call me?_ He bites back the question as she packs the remains of their provisions into a backpack and helps him remake the bed – an unnecessary precaution, in the end. _I’m no miracle worker_. He can’t cure Tomas any more than she can. This isn’t something he can cast out.

In truth, he knows the answer, knows it without needing to ask. It’s because this is what he does. He comes in, and he fixes things. Makes them right again and moves on. It’s what she’s always known. She needs him to be that mentor again, to fix her mistakes one more time.

There are some things too broken to fix. Tomas may be one of them. He should tell her that. A good teacher gives you the truth, even if it hurts to hear it. But as she cradles Tomas’ shoulders so he can lift him from the bed, he looks into her eyes and sees love there. Not the affection of a friend, or the desperation of a lover, but something deeper. An unconditional love, a profound compassion, a fierce determination to save. He sees Christ in her eyes, and he can’t bring himself to shatter that illusion.

_Why did you call me?_ He knows the answer, but he aches to ask anyway, just to be rid of the mounting tumult beneath his skin. There would be nothing sweeter than to give in to the part of him that’s angry and bitter, and afraid.

His breath leaves him when Tomas’ eyes flutter open. It’s only for a moment, but the flash of brown irises, bloodshot but almost lucid, snaps him back to reality. He lets go of Tomas’ legs.

“Change of plan,” he says. “We’re heading back south.”

Mouse blinks, relaxing her own grip so she can stare at him. “We can’t. There are men only a few days behind us-”

“We’ll ditch the car and pick up something else. Let them pass us on the highway, they won’t be able to tell the difference.”

She narrows her eyes. “East is still the safest plan.”

“For us, not him.” He gestures down at Tomas. “He’ll die before we hit the border.”

The blunt truth of it startles them both. Suddenly, Marcus’ anger feels petty against the weight of what they’re facing.

“We need to get him to a hospital. _Today._ ”

Mouse sputters, disbelieving. “We can’t, Marcus. We can’t go to a hospital, do you think they won’t find out? We can deal with this ourselves,” and she says it with such surety that he almost believes it.

“No, we can’t.”

She’s incredulous. It doesn’t surprise him. This is how it’s been, how he led her to be. Self-sufficient, never looking for outside help. He can’t blame her for following in his footsteps. But finally, she nods, because even if she doesn’t agree she still trusts him too. Working together they manoeuvre Tomas to the truck.

It only takes a few miles of road before they spot a turnoff that leads them to a parking lot where the pickings are easy, and soon enough they trade in the battered Toyota pickup for a sensible four-door sedan. They leave Marcus’ transportation and sometimes-home behind in the lot. He doesn’t feel the loss too keenly – it doesn’t do to form attachments to physical things, not in their line of work.

He’s grateful now for the change in vehicle, because he can cradle Tomas’ head in his lap in the comfortable backseat, instead of bracing it against a metal-induced concussion and trying not to swallow clouds of dust.

There were times, when they were together before, that the urge to touch would become almost unbearable. Marcus doesn’t delude himself into think it was anything as adolescent as a crush, but… it was _something_. Something intangible and heavy between them, and often Marcus caught his own gaze lingering, wondering if the pull that made his heartbeat meander and his mouth run dry was significant, or just the by-product of too many years of empty hotel rooms.

Tomas looks older now. There are lines in his skin that Marcus doesn’t recognize: new wrinkles on his brow, a scar above his left eyebrow, the first hint of grey strands at his temple. He’s still absolutely recognizable as the man who Marcus worked with only a year ago, but the change is enough to make Marcus hesitate. Who can say what else has changed? He keeps his hands to himself for the duration of the trip.

He doesn’t have long to wait. The highway south towards Seattle takes them through Bellingham, and the smaller town seems safer somehow than the big city, so they pull off there and find the local hospital without much effort.

The ER is quiet for a Friday night. The triage nurse takes one look at Tomas hanging like a sack of bones off of Marcus’ shoulder and spirits him away on a gurney. Mouse, clever as she is, obtained a fake id to match Tomas’ real one sometime in the year past. The _Ortega_ behind her name is more than sufficient to get her past the swinging doors. She leaves Marcus in the waiting room with an apologetic look over her shoulder. He won’t be allowed in until Tomas is settled. It’s hospital policy. Just be patient.

Someone hands him a clipboard with paperwork – intake, insurance forms – and his eyes blur as he stares at the little boxes that ask for information he can’t provide. His passport hangs absently from his fingers – the letters _Fr_ quietly mocking him from the space beside his name, an honourific of priesthood not yet scratched out. It’s not like any of them has insurance anymore, unless somehow Tomas’ parish neglected to cancel his plan in their two-year absence. This isn’t the first time he’s falsified a document in his career, but this time the ruse may have to last longer than a day. No clumsy lies will do.

The letters swim together as he pencils in what he can. When the orderly returns, Marcus has barely made it halfway down the first sheet. The man smiles soothingly and takes the clipboard from Marcus’ shaking hands (when did that start?) Marcus splutters some nonsense about needing Mou- _Maria’s_ help with the rest of it. The man says that’s fine, and leaves him alone, surrounded by all the other people without a strong enough connection to be allowed into the inner sanctum.

Exhausted, he presses his palms to his eyelids, letting the pressure spark fractalled patterns until he’s half-blind with shimmering light. It takes a few minutes for the pinpricks to fully clear and by that time someone is calling his name. The same orderly gestures towards him and he follows with floating feet, lets himself be carried wherever he’s led.

\---

It’s like Savannah all over again. The same monitors tie Tomas to the bed, the same sweat on his brow. Every sinew in Marcus’ body cries to walk backward out the door. Get in the truck, leave Tomas to his fate. This isn’t what he’s good for. He doesn’t know what to _do_.

But the record isn’t spotless like it was then. No amount of distance will wipe the blood from his hands, and so what’s the point? There’s no reason to avoid this inevitability, besides his own sanity, and he hasn’t got much of that left to speak of anyway. And so he places his bag down on the chair by the door, and goes to the bedside, and lets himself look upon the consequences of it all.

There’s a needle in the crook of Tomas’ elbow, running to an IV drip, and an oxygen line in his nose. For all intents and purposes, he seems peaceful. At least he’s not tossing and turning. That’s an improvement, isn’t it?

When Marcus looks up, Mouse is standing by his side.

She gives him the diagnosis: pneumonia and dehydration. Marcus nearly laughs – it sounds so _mundane_. He knows those words, knows what they mean. The sickness is serious, maybe, but treatable. A few days of antibiotics and Tomas will be on the mend. The relief is so heady he staggers from it, bracing himself on the edge of the counter by the wall. It’s euphoric – he feels it in his jaw and his shoulders and down to the base of his spine.

He knows in this moment that he did care, _does_ care, never stopped caring, and all the anger and frustration seems so insignificant in the wake of that realization. _Tomas_. The subtle rise and fall of his chest is the most comforting thing Marcus has ever seen.

Then Mouse places a hand on his shoulder, and her eyes don’t mirror his own ecstasy. They’re dark, and grey, and the euphoria cools to ice in his veins.

_It’s advanced_ , she says, and he looks past her at Tomas’ prone body. _They don’t expect him to-_ and he can’t hear her anymore, can’t hear anything but rattling breath. He can see now that the rise and fall is too shallow, and the sallowness of Tomas’ skin hasn’t improved. It’s a wonder, how easily the eyes can deceive someone who wants to be tricked.

He tries to push past her but she holds his shoulders still with strength beyond his. Marcus snarls, and tries again, but she holds on tighter, and he opens his mouth to yell at her for keeping him from the bed, but suddenly there’s hair brushing his throat and he realizes she hadn’t been holding him at all. She’d been keeping herself up.

She’s crying. Soft, quiet tears, with shoulders so still he’d barely know it if wetness wasn’t seeping down into his collar. They stop almost as suddenly as they began. She pushes herself off him and wipes her eyes, not trying to hide the evidence but steeling herself. He’s never known her to cry when she’s in pain. Most of her tears were wrought of frustration, the ones he’s witnessed at least. Whatever emotion she’s feeling now, he can’t read. Maybe there are too many to distinguish.

Tomas doesn’t need him in this moment. Tomas is beyond his help, and Mouse is here before him, looking so lost. She needs him. She needs…

And here is the tipping point. Here is the difference. Here is the change that can’t be seen, but felt.

He _needs,_ too. And for once, for this very short moment, he’ll take to heart what he’s learned in this last year. He’ll put his own needs first.

“Get some air,” he tells Mouse. She turns her head, doesn’t let him see her reaction. Maybe she thinks the dismissal is because Marcus is angry. Maybe she starts to second-guess his forgiveness, for allowing this to happen. He doesn’t know what she thinks in this moment. With empathic senses chiming _hurt, pain, fix_ in the base of his gut, he watches her go, and when she’s gone there’s only him in the room. Him and his own emotions. And though that doesn’t make the situation any less dire, the smallest weight lifts from his shoulders.

When she’s gone, he doesn’t go to Tomas’ side. Instead he presses the button on the intercom and summons the attending nurse.

She looks bewildered at his request. “I asked his wife earlier if she wanted spiritual support,” and it does not escape Marcus how carefully vague the service she’d offered was. “She refused.”

“I’m not looking for a priest. I _am_ a priest, for god’s sake. But this is something that I don’t always keep in my back pocket on a whim, you understand.”

The nurse promises to contact the on-call chaplain with his request. Belatedly, he regrets sending Mouse out so early. He can’t abandon Tomas to go search the hospital for what he needs. But she’s gone from the hallway, and so there’s nothing to do but wait.

Part of Marcus is afraid to look. Tomas is unresponsive as he drags a chair up to the side of the bed. The seat is a little too low for the height of the bed. The difference makes Marcus feel like a child, with Tomas raised high above him. Marcus’ headache mounts and the faintest hint of an aura begins to seep out from the white sheets and dark curls. He leans his arms into the side of the mattress and lets his head drop, close enough to feel the heat from Tomas’ side radiate to the top of his skull.

From this vantage, the whole world is alien, askew. Tomas’s face was always so perfect, the sort of symmetrical beauty that marks magazine covers. It isn’t quite so elegant from this angle. Marcus lets himself smile, just for a moment. They were at the level where they teased, ever so gently, before they parted. If none of this were real he’d have the courage now to playfully poke at Tomas’ side, and the surety to know it would be taken as a friendly gesture, that there would be no offence at his touch.

Even in that fantasy, Marcus can’t quite bring himself to take Tomas’ hand.

The intercom beeps. They’ve managed to get a hold of the chaplain, but he can’t seem to reach the Catholic priest on rotation, and being Methodist himself he doesn’t have what Marcus needs. Their next best plan is to search the chaplaincy office and hope there’s something there that will suffice.

Come to this, he could have had oil sent up from the kitchen and blessed it himself, but the excommunication letter still hangs heavy on his mind. Would God really care if the blessing came from someone ordained, or someone who only used to be? Marcus doesn’t know. But that’s the end of the thought. If, in his darkest hour, he’s to fall back on orthodoxy, then it has to be done _right_. That at least he’s sure of. As sure as he can be. Which is to say, he doesn’t know if he’s sure about anything anymore.

A knock at the door. He drags himself up far enough to see the nurse pass through the doorway with cautious steps, slowing her feet on the hallowed ground of a wake not yet begun. Marcus takes the bottle she holds, and the glass is cool to the touch, smooth and unblemished. When he swirls the contents, a thin film of oil forms in a perfect sheet, clear enough to see through to the scars on his palm.

“That’s all I need, thank you.” The footsteps retreat. The door closes, leaving the three of them alone again – Tomas, Marcus, and whatever form God chooses to take tonight.

Under ordinary circumstances, he’d begin by taking Tomas’ confession, but Tomas’ fitful sleep is too precious to be interrupted. Under ordinary circumstances, there would be family present to complete the call and response, but he sent Mouse away, and Tomas’ sister is too far to reach. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have a Bible handy and a copy of the liturgy to reference, but instead he has open palms and the faltering words falling from his tongue, slowly taking the shape remembered from his old life.

“In our hour of faith let us appeal to Almighty God.” He closes his eyes.

“Come and strengthen this man through this holy anointing. Lord, have mercy.”

He whispers the response to himself. It feels too strange to omit it. “Lord have mercy.”

“Free him from all harm. Lord have mercy.”

“Free him from all sin and temptation. Lord have mercy.”

“Relieve his suffering. Lord have mercy.”

“Assist those dedicated to his care. Lord have mercy.”

“Give life and health to our brother Tomas, on whom we lay our hands in your name. Lord have mercy.”

“Lord have mercy,” he says, and with his palm, he strokes back the hair from Tomas’ forehead. His hand feels as cold as the back of his throat, voice all dried up and brittle, breaking like old twigs as he murmurs again, “Lord have mercy”. Again, “Lord have mercy”. Again, “God, _please_ ”.

This isn’t the closest they’ve been, far from it. He’s known the insides of the whites of Tomas’ eyes, counted creases in intimate detail with palms pressed flat against a trembling jawbone. And yet, as he dips his thumb into the bottle and places it against Tomas’ forehead, it all feels too close. The foot of space between his hunched shoulders and Tomas’ shallow breaths begins to pitch. His fingers smear the even smudge of oil as they move back and forth, brushing the curls back in a compulsive rhythm, like cresting waves. He realizes he’s falling, and catches himself just in time.

Right, hands.

Marcus sets the bottle on the edge of the bed and takes Tomas’ limp arms, pulling on the wrists until they lay, palm up, on the white bedspread.

_Let my hands be the instrument of your grace. Lend your spirit to me. Let me save him._

He takes Tomas’ left hand in his own. It feels the way he’d imagined – wiry and strong, hard and unchafed. His own callouses are rough by comparison. The new glisten of oil softens the drag of his thumb as he anoints the lifelines that crease the hollow of Tomas’ palm. He watches Tomas’ face. His eyelashes don’t so much as flutter.

And that’s it. That’s the ritual. That’s everything he’s got left in him, and so he lays his head back down, and cradles Tomas’ hand in his own, and waits to see if God will work one last miracle through him. If God does appear, Marcus doesn’t see it. He’s asleep within minutes.

When he wakes, it’s to the glimmer of light in his periphery, and he opens his eyes to find the same nurse standing in the open doorway. She fidgets, like there’s a question she wants to ask but doesn’t dare speak. Too late he realizes that Mouse is still gone, and Tomas’ hand is still in his, and how it all must look, but she whisks Tomas away for more tests without commenting, and that at least is a small miracle in his books.

When she returns, it’s with a doctor, and Tomas, and the news.

The prognosis isn’t good, but it isn’t as hopeless as they’d thought. They’ll keep observing. They’re hopeful. Marcus should be hopeful. Complications may result from the prolonged fever. Does he understand? Yes, he understands. Except no, he doesn’t at all.

Does this mean the sacrament worked? Does this mean God is moving through him again?

He chokes down the smallest, infinitesimal part of him that was hoping this was the end of Tomas, so that at least he’d have a clear answer, one way or the other.

Tomas’ pallor is improved just by a few hours hooked up to the IV. Hope. Marcus feels it. It runs like frothing poison through his veins, hot and exhilarating and damning.

It would have been easier, he thinks, to stay not caring at all.

Without the threat of dying, Tomas’ hands are once again off limits, and Marcus’ lingering stare is once again something to control, so he paces instead for a while, and then sets off to find Mouse and tell her what’s transpired. His limit on selfishness is at an end too. She deserves to know.

\---

It takes a while, but he eventually finds her: tucked into the corner of the parking garage, hands stuffed into the pockets of her leather jacket, watching the cars disappear into the looming night.

When he tells her the news, she lets her head fall back against the concrete wall. He leans beside her and averts his eyes, letting her have the moment of privacy as best he can. Finally, she huffs a laugh – a soft, worn-out thing – and says,

“God, I could use a cigarette right now.”

Marcus starts, then reaches into his pocket. The pack he pulls from his pocket is crumpled, but not much worse for wear, and she whistles in gratitude as he hands it to her. He watches as she pulls a lighter from a pocket inside the jacket and flips it open, momentarily illuminating the darkness with a dim lick of flame.

Her face is the same as an hour ago, but different too. A little more cracked. He knows this, even with only a moment’s glance, because it’s the same look that haunted him in the spotless mirror above Tomas’ bed.

Marcus says, as gently as he is able to, “They said there might be complications.” Then, “He won’t be able to keep doing this.”

A plume of grey smoke. “I know.”

“You’ll be on your own again.”

She turns her eyes to him then, just barely lit in the intermittent glow of the butt between her teeth. Then, silently, she holds out the carton toward him. Marcus stares down at the 19 cigarettes: lined up like perfect soldiers, row on row.

“I meant to quit,” he says. And he did. He really did.

“I know.”

Marcus reaches out and takes one.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Marcus will never truly be out, will he?
> 
> Fun fact, my dad is a chaplain at the local hospital back home, and last Christmas he did very much spend a whole day trying to chase down holy oil when he couldn't reach the Catholic priest who was supposed to be on rotation. That was not the original inspiration for the fic, but I couldn't resist including it. 
> 
> Full disclaimer: I've only ever seen an anointing done in a Protestant context (where it's not a sacrament and the practice a little more laissez-faire) so I apologize for any and all inaccuracy. I tried to do my research as best I could.


End file.
